


The Theory of Exponential Expansion

by doctornerdington



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Bisexual Character, Developing Relationship, F/F, Female Friendship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Massage, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes love is a slowly blooming thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Theory of Exponential Expansion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> A gift for @thedevilchicken in the 2015 Femslash Exchange. I hope you like it!

**Stardate 44254.7**

Beverly Crusher sighed and leaned against the wall of the corridor, tapping her foot impatiently. She had been waiting outside Deanna’s door for almost ten minutes already. When she had arrived, a harried-looking Deanna had answered her chime and asked her to wait. In the background, Beverly had heard a strident voice apparently reading aloud sacred Betazoid texts, interspersed with bongs from Mr. Homn’s omnipresent ceremonial gong.

A few minutes more, and the door swished open again. Deanna burst out, followed by a voice calling, “Little One! Little One! Where are you going? We have not completed the ritual cleansing of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx! The Litany of Purgation must be sung in contrary harmony, as you well know. Return at once!”

Deanna shuddered and answered over her shoulder, without turning: “I’ve a consult with medical on a critical case, mother. I’ll return as soon as I can, but now I really must go. I’m late!”

She grabbed Beverly’s arm and pulled her quickly down the corridor to the turbolift.

“A consult with medical?” Beverly asked, raising a sly eyebrow. “Sounds serious. I’d better let you go.”

“Don’t you dare!” Deanna said, holding her arm more firmly.

Beverly chucked. “I’m only teasing. In fact, the only reason I’m here is to kidnap you away from the clutches of your mother—for an hour, at least. And I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Deanna looked at her gratefully. Lwaxana had been on board for transport to a diplomatic mission for almost a week, and her drop-off point was still 24 hours away. It was beginning to feel interminable. She’d even begun to toy with begging Captain Picard to increase their speed to warp 7. Somehow, she thought he’d be receptive to the idea.

“Beverly, I swear, if I have to recite one more verse of one more ritual cleansing, or hear another word about my inherited duties as the future keeper of the Holy Rings of Betazed, I will scream so loudly you’ll hear me in Sickbay. Not telepathic screaming, either—actual screaming.”

Beverly clucked sympathetically as they entered the lift. “Poor thing.” She had grown used to meeting up with Deanna several times each week: in the gym for joint exercise sessions, in the holodeck for rec periods, and even just sharing quiet evenings in one of their quarters, reading or talking long into the night. The week of Lwaxana’s journey might have been trying for Deanna, but it had been a singularly dull experience for Beverly. She’d felt Deanna’s absence and preoccupation far more keenly than she had expected. “Ten Forward,” she said into the lift.

Deanna looked pleased. “We have plans?”

“We do. I’m taking you out and buying you a glass of wine --” she paused and looked Deanna over. “Actually, make that a bottle. Chateau Picard—excellent vintage, I’m told. Doctor’s orders. And then I’m ordering two pieces of Guinan’s new double chocolate dark fudge cake, and you can tell me all the terrible things your mother has said to you this week. Or, if you like, I can distract you by telling you about my week—but I’m not sure the long and enthralling tale of Alyssa’s missing TR-590 prototype would be much better.”

Deanna just smiled, wide and open and lovely. “Beverly?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Can we get the cake à la mode?”

Beverly grinned back. “I assumed, yes.”

There was a moment of silence as the lift swept them off to their destination.

“Beverly?” Deanna said again, quieter this time.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Beverly squeezed her arm.

 

The women were well into their bottle of wine before Deanna had relaxed enough to stop ranting about the many humiliations and inconveniences of having her mother aboard the Enterprise.

“You are a saint for sitting through all of that,” Deanna said at last when she paused to draw breath, pouring out the last of the wine. Ten Forward was busy at this hour, but as if by agreement the pair had settled at a small table tucked into a back corner, out of sight of the more crowded main room, and no one had joined them, or even noticed their presence. Deanna rolled her shoulders, releasing some of the tension that had been gathering there since her mother came aboard. She sat back with a sigh, feeling lighter than she had all week. “How did you know how much I needed this?”

Beverly rolled her eyes. “I’m not Betazoid, but I’m not blind. I have a difficult family member of my own, you know. It’s nice to escape.”

Deanna gave her a fond look. “You cannot seriously be comparing my mother to your son,” she said in mock horror. “Have you not _met_ the woman?”

At that, Beverly laughed outright—a rare occurrence, one that warmed Deanna’s smile even more. “No, no. You’re right. An overbearing mother and a precocious, know-it-all teenager definitely come with their own distinct sets of problems.”

There was a lull in the conversation as each woman ruefully pondered the truth of that statement.

“And how is young Wesley?” Deanna prompted, eventually.

“Mmm? Oh, he’s… he’s fine, from what I can tell. He doesn’t tell me much anymore.” She quickly looked down at her lap, and then out at the starscape as it zipped past the viewing port.

“What is it?” Deanna asked gently.

Beverly sighed. “It’s nothing. It’s everything! I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like my son is almost an adult, and I haven’t learned a single thing about how to be a mother—how to give him what he needs from me. And sometimes it feels like he can barely stand to be in the same room with me, and I don’t know why! For all I know, he feels the same way about me that you do about your mother. What if there’s something about motherhood that makes women … insufferable? Would I even recognize it in myself?”

Deanna rested her hand softly on Beverly’s arm. “You’re not insufferable, Beverly.”

“I don’t think he would agree with you. Not all of the time, anyway.”

The warmth of Deanna’s hand, just two degrees above normal human temperature, suffused Beverly’s arm and seemed to radiate through her. She could not have identified at what stage in their friendship she had begun to feel comfortable with Deanna’s freedom of touch—begun, in truth, to enjoy it—but she knew herself well enough to acknowledge it as a fact.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Beverly,” Deanna said. “In fact, I know you don’t. It’s natural for children to feel some antipathy for their parents as they test the boundaries of their increasing independence. The issues I have with my mother are—quite different.”

Beverly nodded. “I suppose. It’s just so hard to judge, sometimes, when you’re right in the middle of it. And being without Jack—I don’t have anyone to bounce these things off of. He used to laugh, you know—not at me, not at my worry, but with me. He used to make me laugh at myself. Sometimes I feel so—brittle. Without him.”

There was a pause. Deanna’s hand remained on her arm. It was comforting.

“Wesley loves you, Beverly.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I know he does.”

Deanna leaned over and kissed Beverly once, softly, on the cheek. Her lips hovered for a moment, and Beverly thought she might kiss her again. Surprising herself, she rather hoped she would—but then Deanna leaned back into her chair once more.

Beverly smiled slightly. “What was that for?” she asked.

Deanna shrugged. “For? It was for you, and a little bit for me. Now, is it time for dessert?” she asked brightly.

 

The cake was delicious—Guinan’s specials always were—but more delicious still, Beverly thought with pleased bewilderment, was watching Deanna enjoy it.

 

**Stardate 44258.4**

They met at their usual time in Gymnasium 14-7B. Beverly and Deanna been workout partners for years now, and found they preferred the quiet of the smaller, usually-deserted gym to the bustle of the ship’s main rec areas—more conducive to the socializing that was the true purpose of their workouts.

It had begun in the early days of the ship’s mission, with Deanna complaining bitterly about the dreary necessity of the Starfleet exercise regime, and then Beverly’s offer to partner with her, to liven up her routine. Since then, they’d developed a routine of their own: a pleasant half hour of chatting and stretching, and then another targeting muscular or cardiovascular fitness—more than enough to comply with Starfleet guidelines.

They’d cycled through everything from Klingon Mok'bara to Andorian calisthenics, never settling on a single activity long enough to get bored, and turning each new activity into a course of cultural study, as well. Beverly, a dancer at heart, preferred rhythmic, coordinated activities, but executed nearly everything with a grace that betrayed her early training. Deanna surprised herself by enjoying the more competitive sports: not combative, necessarily, but activities that challenged her to out-perform her opponent. Beverly cared little for winning, but she enjoyed Deanna’s gusto.

They greeted each other warmly and then began to run through a series of partnered stretches in relative silence. They knew each other’s bodies well by now—knew exactly how far to push, how to coax reluctant muscles to relax just a little further—and they moved through their stretches with graceful ease.

“I’m going to do some extra upper-body work,” Deanna said when they had finished. “Mother’s visit has been terrible for my stress levels. I carry it right here,” she added, kneading her trapezius.

Beverly nodded. “Time for a visit to physio?” she asked.

“Oh, no. It’s nothing some stretching and maybe a massage won’t cure.” Deanna dropped to her knees and began twisting her arms diagonally around her body, groaning slightly as her tight muscles protested, then eased into the stretch.

Beverly began a series of modified sun salutations; they had recently begun to practice a form of Old Earth yoga as filtered through Vulcan philosophies of M’plokKylaut. Many of her patients who had adopted the trendy new fusion practice had shown marked improvements in baseline cortisol levels and better controlled norepinephrine release—better even than the improvements typically shown with regular meditation practice. Beverly’s own body was responding well to the practice. She dipped into a plank-like posture and held the pose for the requisite time period, flexing her muscles in the sequence prescribed while holding the rest of her body perfectly still. The minutes ticked by. She frowned as she realized her mind was not focused on her breathing patterns at all, as it should be, but was busily pursuing two lines of thought. One part of her brain was mapping out a research study on the biological effectiveness of cross-cultural stress control practices versus mono-cultural practices. The other was watching Deanna’s body shift prettily as it twisted and contorted in her silver leotard—was imagining, even, the way that body might feel under her hands.

She shook her head to clear it. She’d been exercising with Deanna for years, and though she’d always admired the other woman’s striking beauty—limpid black eyes and compact, rounded body—never before had she been distracted by it. Come to think of it, never before had she been distracted by a woman’s body at all.

She closed her eyes and counted her breaths for several minutes, trying to refocus on her own practice. It didn’t matter that Deanna was a woman, surely? No, she reassured herself: she'd finally made her peace with that old prejudice. But Deanna was a friend—a good friend—and a colleague. Beverly’s rational mind rebelled at this sudden reclassification of the heretofore known properties of her feelings for Deanna. Friends shouldn't provoke this prickling hot sensation that snaked through her belly when she watched Deanna bend.

Just as she was preparing to resume her postures, Deanna audibly gasped. Beverly whipped her head around and saw Deanna clutching her shoulder in pain.

“Easy, there!” she said, moving quickly to her side and helping her to stand. “Is the muscle spasming?”

“I think so,” Deanna gasped, her body rigid with pain. “It happens sometimes. I just have to wait it out.” She was breathing in shallow gasps.

“Well let’s try to get you relaxed. Tensing up will make it worse.” Beverly’s voice became professional and doctorly. She guided Deanna’s hand down to her side and straightened her stance, then began a gentle, methodical massage, starting at the nape of her neck and swooping down over back and shoulder, coaxing rigid muscles with unhurried, practiced care.

“I didn’t know you were this tense, Deanna,” she chided as the muscles gradually loosened. “You really shouldn’t stretch like that without a proper physio workup!”

Deanna smiled slightly, her movements still ginger and careful. “It’s not that bad, really. I just twisted too quickly. It’s already easing up.” She carefully rotated her head and shrugged her shoulders. “See? All better.” But then she leaned back into Beverly’s hands. “That doesn’t mean I want you to stop, though.”

Beverly chuckled. “You’re a sensualist, aren’t you? A true sensualist.” Her hands returned to Deanna’s back, but her professional touch turned lighter—almost playful. She dragged her fingers down over Deanna’s back, then back up, making what she hoped were trails of relaxation along her spine. Then she turned to her neck, tracing whorls and curlicues along the border where her leotard met bare skin.

“Mmm,” Deanna sighed. “I certainly don’t believe in denying myself pleasure, if that’s what you mean. Our bodies are made to feel. And _this_ feels wonderful.”

“I’ve always been a little suspicious of that philosophy,” Beverly admitted, but her fingers were busily mapping lines up and down Deanna’s neck. Her touch, by now, was almost a caress, although she seemed unaware of it. “Pleasure doesn’t always benefit us beyond the immediate present.”

Her hands sank into Deanna’s thick, glossy curls and she massaged her scalp as Deanna positively melted in her hands.

“Of course that’s true,” Deanna murmured. “But one can learn a lot sometimes by ignoring the voices of intellect and experience, and giving oneself up to the wisdom of the body.”

“The wisdom of the body,” Beverly mused.

Deanna slowly turned and raised her face to her. Her cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes shone with—with something Beverly couldn’t quite identify. Her hair was a cloud of unruly curls, and Beverly longed to touch it again, to bury her hands once more in that warm, fragrant silk.

“Allow yourself,” Deanna whispered.

They locked eyes. Deanna edged forwards, and so did Beverly, millimeter by millimeter, each woman listening intently to her body, to the other’s, to the desire that had come alive—and when had this happened, anyway?—between them.

Deanna tipped her head up, and Beverly tipped her head down, and they breathed warmly into each other’s mouths for a moment, and then the line between kissing and not-kissing ceased to exist. Mouths, soft and wet and hot, pressed together, delicately at first, but not tentatively. With lips and tongues, with hands, with soft sighs and deep breaths, they fell into each other.

Beverly marveled at Deanna’s softness, at the luscious, ripe promise of her body. They kissed and kissed, until suddenly, kissing wasn’t enough. “I want her,” Beverly thought to herself dazedly. The slithering feeling was back in her belly, urgent and hot. “I want to taste her. Everywhere.” Her head was spinning and her thoughts shocked her, but she felt safe—safe and so brilliantly alive. Her breath became quicker. She felt Deanna’s breast rise and fall against her own as her mouth moved against Deanna’s: tracing lips, pressing, licking. Licking deeper.

Finally, Beverly broke away. A minute more, and she feared she wouldn’t have been able to stop. She was a private woman, not given to making displays. Deanna nuzzled her head into the crook of Beverly’s neck with a sigh of contentment. Beverly wrapped her arms around her. She felt protective—almost proprietary for a moment. It felt natural to hold Deanna like this.

“Is this wise, then?” she whispered.

“What does your body tell you?” Deanna asked in return. “I know what mine says.”

Beverly smile faltered, minutely. “My body isn’t the only consideration, here.” When she closed her eyes, she saw a web of people, of responsibilities, of loyalties, and she and Deanna were tangled, far from each other.

Deanna nodded, but nestled in further. Beverly didn’t feel inclined to let go.

 

**Stardate 44261.9**

“Thank god I have my quarters to myself again,” Deanna smiled as they stepped into her room.

“Shall we light an _Altha_ candle in thanks?” Beverly asked, half-jokingly.

Deanna looked at her in surprise. “Oh please, let’s not. I didn’t realize your knowledge of Betazoid cultural traditions was so comprehensive.”

“It’s not, really, but you’re my friend. I haven’t known a Betazoid before, and since we’ve become closer recently, I… well. I did my research.”

“Of course you did!” Deanna’s eyes were laughing. “I’m flattered.”

Beverly flushed, slightly disconcerted. “I want to know you. Understand you better. That’s all.”

Deanna smiled. “Well. I am half human. I can tell you right now that the aggregated research data of a thousand Federation inter-species cultural anthropologists would reveal to you nothing of significance about me. The best way to understand me is to talk to me.”

Beverly nodded. “Of course. The same could be said for anyone. It’s instinct, though, isn’t it? I’m a scientist. If I want information, I research.”

“What information were you after, then, Doctor Crusher?”

Was this flirting, Beverly wondered? When had flirting become so comfortable—so _fun_? She’d always found it awkward before. “Just… general information. The sort you might look up for anyone. I would hate for a cultural misunderstanding to get in the way of our—” She broke off. “To get in the way of anything.”

The mirth in Deanna’s eyes grew, and Beverly flushed up even more.

They were just back from another gym session. This time, they’d actually made it through their entire workout routine—and they’d not yet spoken about the kisses they had shared. They were glowing and rosy with exertion. Deanna turned to replicate a pitcher of iced jestral tea, and winced as her shoulder complained.

“Are you still sore?” Beverly asked. She crossed the room and reached for Deanna without thinking, turning her to face the wall—ostensibly to examine her shoulder, but not coincidentally to remove those knowing eyes from her face. Her pale, translucent skin betrayed her emotions to such a degree that she doubted Deanna’s empathic abilities were ever even necessary where she was concerned.

She gathered up Deanna’s long curls and moved them aside to gently palpate Deanna’s neck and shoulder muscles. Beneath her hands, tense muscles clenched, then slightly released. “I’m sure it’s minor just a minor inflamation, but I can give you a simple painkiller or a muscle relaxant if it’s too painful.”

Deanna shook her head, then hissed at a renewed spasm. Beverly gentled her massage, but didn’t stop. Somehow, she didn’t _want_ to stop: as before, her clinical touch lightened. She gradually became aware of the sensation of Deanna’s skin under her hands, warm and smooth and alive.

“Oh, that feels lovely,” Deanna said. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped slightly back into Beverly’s touch. “I don’t need medication. Only—don’t stop.”

Beverly didn’t, for a long time. As she worked on Deanna's neck and shoulders, a sense of deja vu stole over her--of unreality. Had they ever stopped touching? Had they ever stopped kissing? A little pressure on Deanna’s shoulder had her spinning in Beverly’s arms; dream-like, Beverly bent and kissed her, once, on the mouth.

Hesitantly, Deanna raised her hand to Beverly’s chin; tipped her head slightly to the side. She moved slowly, as if intent on sensing Beverly’s reaction, listening to a conversation Beverly wasn’t sure she knew how to have. Beverly concentrated on her feelings, diving into her anticipation, her pleasure, her desire, trying to amplify them as best she could, to reach out to Deanna with her mind: this is me, she tried to say. This is us.

Without a word, Deanna took her hand and led her to her sleeping chamber.

 

They lay together on the bed, on their sides, facing each other. Still in their leotards, their hands travelled slowly over limbs, throats, over quivering breasts. Deanna was kissing her throat, her hands were tangled in Deanna’s curls. It was perfect, Beverly reflected. So comfortable. So warm. Delicious, endless pleasure. Her hand slipped down Deanna’s back; she began to trace patterns on her leotard. A flower. A face. A heart.

She began to wish for the heat of Deanna’s bare skin against her.

Deanna stirred. Sat up and stipped herself to the waist without a word, then shimmied out of the rest. She lay back on the bed, naked and smiling. Beckoning.

Beverly smiled back. Right: empathic.

She rose and removed her own garment, then turned quickly back to Deanna on the bed: creamy, olive skin set off by a tangle of dark curls. Irresistible.

She leaned down and kissed a dusky nipple. Snaked her tongue out, daringly, to taste. Deanna moved beneath her, languidly, arching slightly into her. Beverly smiled and leaned down again.

 

**Stardate 44262.1**

When Beverly awoke, her heart was pounding. She felt disoriented and strange, waking with a warm body curled around her in a room that was not her own. She tried to lie still, counting her breaths until her heartrate slowed and the remaining tendrils of her dreams—whatever they had been—evaporated into the room. She pulled herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Beverly?” Beside her, Deanna sleepily reached for her. “What’s wrong? Come back.” A hand fell softly on her arm, trying to pull her back into the dark cocoon of blankets, of wild, dark curls.

Beverly pulled away.

“What about Will?” Beverly asked. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded too loud, sounded cold. Minutely, she had started to tremble.

Deanna sat up suddenly.

“Will? What about him?” She looked momentarily lost, but then a look of understanding suffused her face as she caught a wave of uncertainty, of jealousy, rolling off the woman beside her.

“He doesn’t own me,” Deanna said with a moue of distaste. “What we are to each other has nothing to do with my relationship with you.”

A tiny crease appeared between Beverly’s eyebrows, but she nodded.

“And anyway,” Deanna went on, “I might ask you the same of Jean-Luc.”

Beverly smiled icily. “We’re not lovers, as I’m sure you know. Will is your _Imzadi_. I’m not even sure Jean-Luc always _likes_ me.”

Deanna took her hand.

“It doesn’t matter, Beverly. _I_ like you. I like you very much. And what is important right now is what is happening between you and me.”

“And what is that?” Beverly asked, not looking at her.

Deanna smiled, her eyes dark and still blurred with sleep. “Something wonderful.”

Beverly nodded. She allowed Deanna to draw her back under the covers, into the warmth and close darkness of her bed.

Snug against her body, now, Deanna murmured into her ear, “You’re asking me to define the borders of our relationship—of my feelings. I can’t set those limits. I don’t know what we might become. I care for you, Beverly. All of you. I feel pleasure in caring for you, and I want to share pleasure with you. We don’t separate these feelings on Betazed. I don’t know how to do that.”

Curled around her, cat-like, Deanna dropped back into sleep almost immediately, breathing softly against her throat.

Beverly lay awake until the morning, thinking about the universe expanding exponentially around her. Wondering if she could bear it.

 

  **Stardate 44267.5**

Deanna and Beverly stared at a painting. They had been pursuing a holodeck course in old Earth art for the past several months, and had a standing holodeck date to visit this gallery once a week, every week. And every time they did, they saw something new—although whether it was something new in the paintings or in themselves, neither of them could have said for sure.

“I’m glad you came today,” Deanna said, indicating the picture before them. “I wasn’t sure you would. But I hoped.”

Beverly crisscrossed her arms and ran her hands up and down as if to shake off a chill. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.”

Deanna glanced at her, her dark eyes full of concern. “Please. You’re always busy, and it hasn’t been a problem before. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I just…” She turned away.

Deanna ran her hand down Beverly’s tense arm and pulled her hand out to grip tightly in her own. When Beverly relaxed slightly, Deanna raised her hand to her mouth and kissed her knuckles. Beverly turned to her and smiled, but her eyes were flat.

“I just don’t know what this is.”

“Does it matter so much?”

“It does to me. I know it doesn’t make sense to Betazoids. I know it’s not natural to you to categorize your feelings, but it does matter to me.”

Deanna sighed, but pulled Beverly closer. “I love you, you know.”

Beverly went still against her. “I… I didn’t. No.”

“No? Well, I do.”

They stood silently for a moment, carefully looking at the painting and not each other.

“I’m sorry,” Deanna said finally, enunciating carefully. “I sometimes forget how different you are from me. You’re not empathic, but—you don’t feel different. You don’t feel foreign, when I sense the shape of you in my mind. I forget. Somehow, I thought you knew. I thought you could feel me.” She turned to face Beverly and took her face between her hands. Her dark eyes were velvet, wet and earnest. “I love you, Beverly. I don’t have language for it. I just feel it.”

Beverly closed her eyes and moved slightly to rest her forehead against Deanna’s. They stood like that, sharing breath, for several minutes. “I feel it too,” Beverly whispered at last. “I do. But I am who I am, Deanna.”

Deanna’s hands firmed, tilting Beverly’s head slightly to position her for a kiss.

“I can work with that,” she said, smiling into her mouth.


End file.
